


Hazy Shade of Winter

by grav_ity



Series: Helen Does The Time Warp, Again [7]
Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grav_ity/pseuds/grav_ity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James has always thought he would live to see 1920.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hazy Shade of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Another installment in "Helen Does the Time Warp, Again", this section comes after Long Road Home, Begin Again, Enter Athene, To The Letter, Dog Days are Gone and The Keeper of Death. Time Travel! Who knew?
> 
> Spoilers: Into the Black
> 
> Disclaimer: If I did run it, we wouldn't be waiting until October!
> 
> Rating: Teen
> 
> Characters: James Watson, Nikola Tesla, Nigel Griffin, Helen Magnus

**Hazy Shade of Winter**

James has always thought he would live to see 1920. Of course, he thought he would look seventy when he got there; greet the decade with an old man’s eyes. And, in a manner of speaking, he has, because his eyes are old and he can tell by the way Helen can’t meet his gaze sometimes that his body is starting to catch up.

Helen’s longevity was never a question, and neither was Nikola’s, but given that Nigel hasn’t aged a day and John didn’t appear any differently when they saw him in 1908, James has become accustomed to thinking that maybe they would all die together, at some far off point in the future. It hasn’t turned out like that. His skin doesn’t bear the marks of his seven decades, but inside, it’s another matter. His organs are shutting down, one by one, for all his blood is as healthy as ever.

It’s Helen who finally determines the cause, using Nigel as a baseline comparison. Neither he nor James is immortal. The Source Blood hasn’t worked any permanent changes in their genetic make-up, aside from their gifts. Only their blood sustains them. And James has, over the course of the decades, destroyed his liver; now it cannot properly filter the vampiric traits from his blood stream to the rest of his body.

He’s not angry, particularly, that his lifestyle is what led to this. All indications in Nigel’s medical work up indicate that he will die too, eventually. He’s just put if off for longer. James isn’t scared of dying either. He’s made his peace with everything, except for John, of course, and a few personal demons he won’t even name, and Helen thinks it likely he’ll remain young until the last few years before his death, at which point he’ll age rapidly. He will not suffer a slow decline. He will simply die.

The only real problem with dying is that if he does go ahead and do it, he’ll lose out on the opportunity to watch the world continue to develop. Everything is so fascinating right now, from mindbogglingly pointless fashions to the gradual movement of truly tremendous ideas in scholarship. He would hate to miss it.

“And why should you?” says Nigel one evening after far too much wine.

Nikola is in town on some whirlwind tour, either fleeing creditors in New York or ducking some lecture he’s supposed to be giving in Paris, or possibly even both at the same time, and the three of the started drinking after dinner. Ostensibly, they are waiting for Helen to return from overseeing construction of the new enclosures in Cornwall, but really, James can’t help but think that Nikola is determined, having learned of James and Nigel’s impending mortality, never to miss another moment of their lives. The very idea is exhausting.

“Yes, why should you?” Nikola says. He’s not even slightly drunk, which is expected, though hardly less annoying. “Why should either of you. You will leave me alone with Helen! Think of the mischief!”

Nigel rather obviously chokes at that, but James is wise enough to let it pass without comment.

“Well, what do you suggest, then?” he asks instead. “You are the inventor.”

“Please, James,” Nikola says, buffing his nails on his tastefully tailored waistcoat. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“God, he’s not dying right now!” Nigel says. “Quit patronizing us.”

“You’ll neither of you die at all, if I can help it,” Nikola says. He’s quite serious, James can see. It’s a little bit terrifying.

“Then what do you suggest?” James asks again.

He’s holding his pocket watch in his hand when he says it, having taken it out nearly half an hour earlier to check the time, only to be distracted by Nikola’s flamboyant demonstration of whatever mechanized monstrosity he’s invented lately. He finally thumbs the catch, and a quiet ticking fills the room.

“Stop!” Nikola says. He sits up from where he’s been lying on the floor since he put the machine away, sprawled as carelessly as he done when they were students.

“What?” Nigel says. He blinks somewhat owlishly through the wine. “Stop what?”

“Stop dying, my friends,” Nikola grins. James knows that grin. “I have an idea.”

++

James reads the note on his desk again, despite having committed it to memory on the first pass. If he’s reading, he doesn’t have to think. Or at least he doesn’t have to think as _much_. And right now, he really doesn’t want to think.

The note is from an informant of his who operates out of Whitechapel, near the hospital. James doesn’t have the Royal London anymore, gave it up more than a decade ago when certain questions became impossible to avoid, but he does have a few feet on the ground he can trust to bring him information. Today’s information is puzzling, if intriguing, and even though it probably doesn’t require a visit in person, he’s rather desperate for an excuse to get out of the house.

Nikola’s enthusiasm for the project hasn’t waned in the months since James’s pocket watch gave him the idea of how to extend his friends’ lives. Worse, now Helen is involved and it seems that she is even more determined he not die than Nikola is. The two of them have been arguing for weeks and weeks over medical problems and mechanical issues, and, frankly, James is starting to have second thoughts about the whole thing. If this is what progress looks like, perhaps he doesn’t need to see it after all.

And yet he knows he still wants to. Since Nikola began his work, James has felt somehow _better_ about everything. Surely with all four of them working on it, he won’t die without a fight. Right now, though, the machine is huge and renders him nearly immobile. He’s made it clear that that is not optional, and Nikola is positive that he can fix it, but James is starting to think that he might not have that much time. He can _feel_ his heart failing, feel his organs begin the inevitable slide into shutting down. It’s unsettling, and he’s not sure how much more he can take.

So he goes out. He gets his hat and his coat, plain enough that it doesn’t matter if they are of fashionable cut, and hails a cab, and heads to Whitechapel as if he can’t feel himself dying.

The shop his informant directs him to is already darkened. It was late when he set out, and he hadn’t really considered the ramifications of his impulsiveness until it was too far into the journey to turn around. Still, there is a candle burning in the back, so he knocks.

“Can I help you?” says the boy who answers. He pronounces the “h”. James smiles.

“Yes, I was wondering if I could speak to the proprietess,” James says.

He makes his voice as warm as he can and draws on the ghosts of a Welsh accent to make it sound like he hasn’t come from the area of town he has. He peers around the room, making out shapes against the dark. The candle is on the table, and there are two chairs, high backed and uncomfortable, flanking the empty fireplace. One chair is completely blocked from view, but James can feel her presence. She’s sitting right there, deciding what to do about him.

“She don’t always talk to people as call on her,” the boy says. Well, it’s the small victories that count.

“I should like to try,” James says. He passes the boy a pound note, extravagant, but worth it if the woman he seeks will speak to him.

“I’ll need your name,” the boy says.

“Doctor James Watson,” he says. He used to give false names at meetings like this, but has recently determined it’s best practice to not lie to abnormals right off the bat unless he can’t help it.

“M’um, there’s a Doctor James Watson.” The boy says it formally, in a louder voice.

The woman in the chair puts up one black gloved hand and waves him over. It’s meant to be imperious, part of the show, but it looks hurried, her hand moving too fast to fit the part. He might be imagining it in the dark, but he thinks that he can see some hesitancy, perhaps even fear, in the gesture.

“Go on, then,” says the boy, and ducks out the door behind him, leaving James alone in the dark.

James moves slowly across the room and sits in the other chair. He pulls off his gloves and sets them on the armrest, where his swordstick leans. When he is settled, he looks at her, hoping to see some further signs in her face.

She is veiled, thick black fabric obscuring her from him. He could say nothing about her form, whether she is old or young, sickly or in good health, human or not. From the crown of her head to the bottom of her shoes, she is all in black and completely unreadable to the eye. He nearly smiles. This will be a challenge.

“They tell me that you can see a person’s death,” James says. “I would like to know how. Do you read cards? Or cast tea leaves perhaps?”

He’s not completely skeptical of her ability, if only because he’s seen too many things to shrug something off without investigating it, but this woman, this Keeper of Death, stretches his credulity.

“I do nothing of the sort, James Watson,” she says. Her voice is cracked and rough, like she in ancient, but something is off about it. Almost as if she were affecting it, like he was affecting his accent to the boy at the door. “I need no cards to see your death.”

She’s looking at him, and quite closely if he is not mistaken. Her head movements give her away. Whatever she is, she is very curious as to what he looks like. He leans closer to the candle to illuminate his face, hoping that she will reveal something else.

“Will you tell me then?” he asks.

“I won’t,” she replies. “I never do. That doesn’t stop them from asking, of course, but I never tell.”

Whatever she was looking for, she has seen it, for she relaxes and sits back.

“Will you tell me how you do it?” he says.

“No,” she says. “I must keep my secrets. All of them. I can’t help what people say.”

She pauses, considering, and then leans forward again, and wraps her gloved hand around his.

“But you will live, James Watson,” she whispers. The cracks in her voice are gone, but the whisper is harsh and unfamiliar. “You will live.”

James thanks her, and leaves. He tells the cab driver to take the long way home.

++

The first thing James feels when he wakes up is the weight. The machine is on his chest, pressing against his heart in a life sustaining rhythm, but it is heavy. His vision is black as he comes out from under the anaesthesia, but he can feel Helen’s grip on his hand. It is strangely familiar, more familiar, but his mind hasn’t caught up to his body yet. He can hear her, cracked and rough as she says his name, and the black veil over his sight lifts all too suddenly.

He is gasping on the table, Helen holding his hand as Nigel and Nikola hover in concern. James’s mind races, pieces flying into the puzzle as he relaxes. She didn’t want him to know. So he can never tell her. But he will live. Helen kisses him, and James breathes.

++

James tucks the final note into place right before Declan knocks on his sitting room door. He’s lived and loved and loved again, much longer than he ever thought he might. Helen didn’t tell him when he would die, but he can feel it coming and has made arrangements. He didn’t bother tracking The Keeper of Death through the decades. If she had needed him, she would have made herself known. But two weeks ago, when he felt his heart falter for the first time, he was at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel, and he looked across the street and saw a woman in black. She didn’t speak to him, or even wave, but he knew. He could feel it in his bones.

Declan knows, James can see it on his face, and he smiles. He’ll leave the Sanctuary to a good man, a man who isn’t as clever as he is, but who is doubtlessly easier to work for. He’ll see John again before he dies, though how he’s going to deal with that he has no idea. And he’ll see Helen.

James never thought he would see three centuries. And he has. And now, unlike last time, he is ready to go.

+++++

 **fin**

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is from the song, but I think the Bangles cover works better than the S&G original. James probably disagrees. ;)
> 
> Gravity_Not_Included, August 30, 2011


End file.
